


Gwîn-Innî

by hope91



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking Contest, F/M, Gigolas Week 2, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2628269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope91/pseuds/hope91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“…for the Wood-elves, and especially their king, were very fond of wine…”</em><br/>-The Hobbit</p><p>Legolas develops an affinity for it as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title translates to "wine flowing excessively" (part-Sindarin, part-Khuzdul).

_Minas Tirith, Midsummer TA 3019_

Éomer sat near the White Tree, his enjoyment of the warm air on this fine summer evening settling amidst the more grim burdens of his thoughts. Soon he’d return to Rohan where, Eru willing, he’d rule until an elderly age. With the cloak of Sauron’s darkness gone, what should have been a peaceful unfolding of a blessed future somehow felt like an entirely suffocating one. He’d never felt more alone. Aragorn now had his Queen, all of the city joyously celebrating their union in marriage. He knew it was his newfound sense of loneliness talking, yet everywhere he looked this evening people had been paired off. He was surprised that Faramir had said nothing yet of asking for Éowyn’s hand, but even that was just a matter of time. It seemed as though everyone around him was moving forward with a partner by their side, while he moved forward alone.

Well, perhaps not everyone.

“Legolas!” he called as the elf entered his field of vision, relieved at the sight of a fellow bachelor – long standing one at that, he mused. “Is your contest finished already?”

“Yes,” the Prince laughed. With the still-incredible defeat of Sauron, liquid merriment flowed from every crevice of Minas Tirith, and this was not their first such contest here – nor would it be their last. “Gimli has succumbed to these fabled Gondorian ales already. Though he humbly requested a rematch before his head hit the floor.”

Éomer chuckled in turn. “Well, I must say he outlasts any man – or woman – that I know. My sister could hold her own, but do not tell him that – she’d turn her ire towards me!” At Legolas’ bewildered look, he changed the topic slightly – the elf just didn’t get his attempts at humor some of the time. “I myself would have passed out by the tenth tankard you drank in Edoras, but not nearly so soon here – the ales of the Mark are far more potent.”

“Well, I think Gimli would agree. But he tires of these mannish ales, and plans to best me with Lonely Mountain spirits. Then we shall try the wines of my kingdom. After that, who knows!” He turned to continue his walk. “I must take my leave, however. Gimli will be spending the night under the palace roof, and I know he’ll want clean clothes upon the morrow – and the brush with which he does his hair." The elf leaned into the King of the Mark, whispering conspiratorially. "He won’t be seen outside his chambers without having his beard in order.” 

Then Legolas stood and ran off, humming what seemed to be a dwarvish tune to himself. Despite his best efforts, Éomer felt his unusual state of self-pity return as he realized Legolas had a partner by his side after all, even if it was platonic.

****

_The Lonely Mountain, TA 3019, near Durin’s Day_

“Take care, elf, for you tread on ground none of us would dare to.”   Glóin looked both bemused and bewildered, completely convinced that both Legolas and his own flesh and blood had lost their minds.

The first evening Under the Mountain, Gimli had sought his promised and much-anticipated drinking contest rematch, pulling forth his favored Longbeard spirits. This time he’d matched Legolas drink for drink, until both of them became sick to their stomachs, a sensation Legolas thought was even more unusual than the tingling in his fingers he’d experienced during their very first drinking contest in Edoras. 

They’d called it a draw, and resumed this evening some days later, Gimli wrangling three carafes of potent Red Mountain spirits that now resided in Thorin III Stonehelm's private stores. The liquor was rumored to be enchanted, a product of the Blue Wizards’ sorcery and Blacklock ingenuity, but every Longbeard scoffed at that thought.

Gimli thought it only fitting to draw these particular spirits out for a different reason this evening. He knew of this potent distilled drink solely as a result of his cousin Kili’s mischief long years ago. This night’s contest would be held in his memory, just as they would devote additional evenings to other comrades and loved ones lost. It was inspired by their initial reflection on Boromir’s life in Minas Tirith during their partaking of Gondorian ale, in the drinking contest they had held in his honor, the very one that had inspired their first rematch Under the Mountain.

“To Kili.” He raised his tankard, clinking it against Legolas’.

“To Kili.” Legolas whispered in turn, his thoughts turning to Tauriel. Those short-yet-long years ago, he’d wondered at the impossibility of an elf and dwarf being attracted to one another.

Now, he understood all too well how possible it was.

“Laddie, are the spirits affecting you already? You’ve only had a sip.” Glóin leaned over, concerned only as a parent would be, while Gimli laughed heartily.

“Nay, Adad! He drinks slowly – an elf is prim and proper, right Princeling?”

Legolas frowned, moving his thoughts back to the present. “Not true. Not whatsoever.” He downed his entire glass in response to the friendly insult, much to the wide-eye amazement of both the father and son sitting beside him.

It burned on the way down, but he said nothing aside from his proud, merry invitation. “Your turn, Gimli!”

The dwarf dug whole-heartedly into his task.

*****

_Eryn Lasgalen, TA 3020, just after the turn of the year_

“You may have won once, Gimli, but here I shall re-establish my winning streak!” The woodland feast honoring Legolas’ return from the War of the Ring was in full swing, and the Prince held five bottles of Dorwinion in his hands.

“Woodland sprites indeed,” Gimli muttered under his breath. He’d never say it out loud, not now, but the dancing seemed even sillier than his Adad had intimated it would be. Mahal would dance with Yavanna in this very glade before _he_ would be caught out there. 

“Remember, Gimli, your Adad Glóin’s words, that a contest in and of itself can be spruced up with a prize. And since I lost in your mountain and had to learn your dwarven dance steps, you shall lose here and learn mine!”

“You get ahead of yourself, elf.” He leaned backed on his elbows, smirking at the sight before him.

And so they drank, as did all the elves around them. Somehow Gimli found himself on the forest floor dancing – not because the contest had been won by Legolas, but because he just couldn’t resist the blond’s pleading sapphire eyes.

“You’re making me sick to my stomach, princeling.” The whirls and twirls were almost too fast for his eyes to follow and he nearly jumped when he heard the chuckle behind him.

 _Thranduil_. Gimli stood at full attention – as much as he could being as drunk as he was – and bowed in the dwarven manner. The Elvenking was as imposing as the first day they met, yet he seemed to have warmed up slightly, perhaps because he had his own Dorwinion flowing through his veins. Gimli was secretly hopeful that he might one day accept his friendship with Legolas. “At your service, my Lord,” as he bowed once more.

“No need for that.” Thranduil beckoned him to stand. “You make my son happy, and over these past weeks I’ve seen it first hand.” And then the Elvenking hugged him and left. 

Thranduil must have been completely drunk to say and do that, Gimli mused, but before he could think any further about that, a set of arms enveloped him. “Come, Gimli,” Legolas whispered in his ear. “I’ve not finished teaching you.” 

Legolas grabbed his hand, pulling him into the crowd once more, and Gimli tried to shake the thoughts of the elf’s warmth from his mind.

****

_Edoras, Fourth Age 1, Late Fall_

The weather was cool as the elf and dwarf sat beside one another on the steps leading to the hall that hosted Éowyn and Faramir’s wedding celebration.

“Shall we go back inside and have a rematch, elf?” Gimli prodded Legolas’ arm, thinking back to their first drinking contest during the Quest in this very town.

Legolas smiled fondly at his dear friend. “Not tonight, Gimli. Rohirric ale simply puts a tingle in my fingers and leads you to pass out, and I’d rather have the pleasure of your company this evening.”

“Aye, laddie, that you shall have, then, for I am ever at your service.” He pulled out his pipe, not noticing Legolas’ thoughtful expression. “Perhaps a contest to see if you can smoke this?”

Legolas laughed, crinkling his nose in apparent distaste. “No, mellon-nin, I shall never smoke your pipe.” He turned to stare at the stars, tracing constellations and studying the varied hues of starlight that he so deeply loved. “I think after this, we should travel East. I’d like to see the stars there, the ones Aragorn says are so strange.”

“Aye, perhaps we should. Or we could visit the Shire. Escort Merry and Pippin back home. See Sam again. We haven’t met his true love yet, after all.”

“I’d like that Gimli. I think they would too. And we’ll have a contest there. The hobbits love to talk of their ales.”

“Aye, Aragorn has much good to say about them as well. But beware, I shall best you, my dear elf!”

“I’m not certain of that, dear Gimli. I think there’s no battle I cannot win!” He said it jokingly, and the dwarf pretended to take great affront to his words.

“Hmph! We’ll see about that!”

**** 

_The Shire, Fourth Age 2, Yuletide Season_

Yule in Bag End was like nothing either of them had ever seen. It was the first time celebrating the common hobbitish-mannish holiday for either of them, and both enjoyed every minute of it.

“What’s this?” Legolas sniffed the glass of warm liquid that had just been provided to him, Rosie smiling fondly.

“It’s a spiced apple cider. Bilbo’s own recipe, mind you.”

“Spiced? With cinnamon?” He sniffed it again, not able to place the flavors.

“Yes, and some other spices from Bilbo’s gardens. I’m not exactly sure of the type, though Sam could tell you. Gardening hasn’t been a hobby of mine.” She blushed as though embarrassed.

“Ah, I see.” He took a sip of the heady mixture, finding it just as 'yule-flavored' as the shaped ginger cookies Sam had made.

Gimli and Sam entered the hobbit hole then, carrying a small fir tree, roots intact in a pot. “Elf, if I have to dig up a tree by its roots again for you…”

“Oh, it was no bother at all, Legolas.” Sam sent a glare towards the dwarf, and Gimli was surprised at his forthrightness. “Save a tree, replant it after its been used - it’s a good motto. Now let’s decorate!”

“Yes, Papa, decowate!” Little Elanor ran into the room, trailing a string of berries behind her.

Sam knelt beside her, admiring the handiwork, knowing it must have been crafted by Legolas but crediting the work to her as well, as she had surely helped the elf in her toddling way. “That’s a fine berry chain for our tree, Elanor.”

“It is!” she said proudly, grabbing Legolas’ hand and running to the tree to sloppily hang it before Gimli had it set up. The dwarf didn’t mind, however, as he found it perfectly endearing.

It was strange, he thought, that he would be sitting in the very hobbit hole his Adad had visited those years ago. Celebrating a hobbit holiday with his now-dear friends, the dearest one of whom was an elf. He sat back on the cushioned settee with Rosie, each of them drinking warm cider as they watched the festivities, both of them completely content as they watched their loved ones – although, of course, only Rosie’s love for Sam was truly known, and suddenly Gimli found himself wanting more, wondering if Mahal might have the good grace to see his regard returned.

“Ah! The mistletoe! It’s so high up, Sam, how will we get it down later?” Rosie whispered to her spouse as Legolas hung up the small sprigs that Sam had passed to him.

“Legolas will still be here, he’ll get it down.” He stepped forward once more to admire their handiwork. “Or we’ll just have to use them all year long, and surely there’s no problem with that,” he beckoned to his lovely wife, “I reckon we should test it out.”

Legolas’ eyebrows lifted, completely unaware of what this tradition entailed until he saw them kiss underneath it. He went to sit beside Gimli, whispering in his ear. “Sam has certainly grown more bold. He was so shy before. I hadn’t really noticed it until now.”

Sam told hobbit tales of Yule, Rosie correcting him from time to time and Elanor squealing in delight throughout. And then the family retired, for Elanor was worn out and even with the extra pairs of hands, her parents were worn out as well.

“Let’s clean up for them, princeling.” Gimli began picking up dishes, and Legolas followed his lead.

“Shall we travel to the Green Dragon tomorrow, Gimli? For our hobbit ale contest? Merry and Pippin have been looking forward to it.”

“Aye, if you’re up for it, princeling. But I daresay you will lose.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully, as though deciding on his battle plan for those festivities. “Come, let’s finish our gift for Elanor.” He grabbed a box he had hidden in a side cupboard, pulling out a set of wooden animals that Bofur had crafted for them. All that remained was the decorating.

“There!” Legolas eventually said, putting the finishing touch on the Great Eagle he had been working on. He stood to stretch for a few moments, and then moved to sit back down to study Gimli’s handiwork. “Gimli, what _is_ that?”

“It’s an orc, Legolas. Surely you’ve seen enough of the foul beasts in your day to recognize one.”

“Gimli, I thought we were making animals. Not orcs.” 

“Laddie, I think she’ll like this orc. Especially with this figure of her Papa here who can fight it. No young one should be without an orc for a toy – what kind of warrior will she turn out to be otherwise?” He pulled out a carving of a hobbit that he’d been decorating to look like Sam.

“Dwarves!” Legolas shook his head, grinning widely. “Is battle all you ever think of?”

“Nay, not at all. Good ale, good friends, what more could there be?”

Legolas shrugged, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, wishing Gimli _did_ see what more there could be.

Gimli, however, wasn’t in a silent mood, and grew a bit more daring. Seeing yet another couple clearly in love made him want to test the waters with his One a bit further. “In more than one sense, Laddie, my eyes are better than yours.”

Legolas frowned at the entirely smug look on the dwarf’s face. “How so, mellon-nin?”

He chuckled. “You’re sitting under the mistletoe, laddie. You owe me a kiss.”

Legolas looked upward. He was, indeed, sitting directly under the mistletoe he had hung earlier. “Mellon-nin, your eyes are not that keen if you just noticed it now. I’ve been sitting here for awhile." 

“Aye, that is true enough, you've made a good point. So you shall owe me more than one kiss.”

“I do not!” Suddenly he was faced with his heart’s desire, and he had no idea how to respond. Dread filled his being at the thought of Gimli discovering his non-platonic feelings. 

“Aye, you do. But I can see you are intimidated, for I would win any contest involving kissing.”

“Gimli, have you been into Bilbo’s stash of mead?” It was partially a serious question, partially an attempt to divert his attention.

The dwarf shook his head, returning to his crafting. He’d push it no further, not tonight. Occasionally he was convinced Legolas returned his feelings in equal measure, but he'd just had the perfect opportunity to test the waters, and the elf clearly wanted nothing more. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

The clearing of the Prince’s throat drew the dwarrow’s attention from his task. “Well?” Legolas asked, his heart beating faster than it ever had before as he changed his mind and decided he wouldn’t let this opportunity escape him. Surely Gimli wouldn’t offer a kiss if he felt nothing for him?

Seconds ticked by as though they were the eternity that lay before him.

“Well what, laddie?” Gimli looked at Legolas closely, not catching his meaning.

“Let’s see who wins this contest. Best kiss.”

Ah, Gimli thought. Perhaps he does feel the same – and if not, did it matter? He’d not turn down an opportunity to kiss the one he’d grown to think of as his One.

“You kiss me first, Princeling.” His voice was almost hoarse, and he moved close enough for Legolas to give him a quick peck on the lips.

“Laddie, I’ve clearly won before it even began.” He moved in to kiss the elf, and Legolas quickly realized that an eternity with this dwarf was all he had ever wanted.

****

_Lothlórien, Fourth Age 4, Early Summer_

“It’s a fitting location, my friend.” Éomer grasped Gimli’s shoulder as they stood on the outskirts of the wedding celebration before them, watching the whirlwind of elves – and the occasional dwarf, hobbit, or human – passing them by.

“Aye, it is.” It was nearly impossible to believe that he was back in the very spot where he’d begun losing his heart – and finding it was held with complete devotion was beyond any words he could speak.

"I should name my firstborn after the merriment I see here. What would a dwarf think of that?" Éomer looked to Gimli with a grin.

"Hmph, depends on the name, I suppose. What are you thinking? Weed-toaker?" He chuckled at the thought of a future King of the Mark with such a name.

Éomer laughed as well as he gazed at the merry elves before him, all tipsy from their wine. "What of Elfwine? It has a nice ring to it, and it shall remind me forevermore of the gaiety I see before me."

Gimli nodded thoughtfully, thinking that the name sounded unique, which was quite important in his opinion. But before he could respond, a welcome interruption suddenly appeared before him, one that completely reinforced Éomer's idea. “Gimli!” Legolas wrapped his arms around the dwarf and kissed him with such abandon that Éomer’s own cheeks began to grow slightly red. “Sorry, Éomer, I’m taken now – and I’d have him take me right here were it not for my Adar standing nearby." 

Éomer was used to raucous talk – but hearing such words from this elf seemed entirely out of place. Then he shrugged it off, attributing it to the upcoming bonding they would share this evening, something he knew the elf had not yet experienced - yet seemed most excited to try.

Gimli didn’t seem to mind, however – he’d cross the Sundering Sea on a bed of seaweed to be with Legolas – and knowing he was wanted in turn was more than he would have hoped for.

Mahal smiled upon him indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sindarin translations_  
>  Mellon-nin = my friend  
> Adar = Father  
> Gwîn = wine  
> ****  
>  _Khuzdul Translations (courtesy of the dwarrow scholar)_  
>  Adad = Father  
> Innî = flow(ing) excessively


	2. Chapter 2

_Dorwinion, Fourth Age 37, Late Summer_

“Legolas, I have never noticed it so clearly, but your drinking puts the legendary elves of your Adar’s Halls to shame.” King Elessar chuckled and shook his head in amusement as he saw Legolas growing tipsy in the quaint inn they called home for the evening. Since marrying Gimli and learning the delights of bonding, when the elf grew tipsy on wine he became amorous, and flirted with many.

Gimli, unlike Aragorn, didn’t think it was amusing whatsoever, and the former ranger could clearly tell. “Gimli,” he whispered, “I do not think he would be unfaithful to you. He is simply enjoying himself. Elves have different – boundaries. They don’t realize what flirting means for humans and dwarves.”

“Aye, so you would be fine with Arwen doing as he is right now?” The dwarrow said pointedly, watching Legolas flip his hair over his shoulder and touch the arm of one of the men seated nearby. “He was sitting on the lap of another before.”

“No,” Aragorn sighed, “I would not be fine with it. But hear this, my dearest friend. Elves are not unfaithful; such betrayal is a complete impossibility. The meaning of his actions is different for him.”

“Hmph. How about my chopping their heads off with my axe? Perhaps _then_ his would-be suitors would understand _my_ meaning.” His jealousy threatened to overwhelm him, yet he held back due to his desire to avoid a scene, not wanting to jeopardize Aragorn’s attempts to improve diplomatic relations in the province.

Aragorn fully understood how upset the dwarf was – particularly if he thought about Arwen acting as Legolas did. “Perhaps you need to wear clearer signs of your relationship. Craft him another ring Gimli, and request he wear it in the mannish way.”

Yet Gimli didn’t hear him, as he could no longer tolerate the sight before him, and he stood to take Legolas back to their room – something the elf was all too happy to comply with.

“Gimli!” he said happily, throwing his arms around his spouse. “Where have you been?”

The dwarrow frowned. “Right there. With Aragorn. Where we’ve been all night.”

Legolas looked a bit perplexed, and then shrugged, grinning merrily. “No matter.” He leaned in to whisper into Gimli’s ear, “Take me back to our room. I need you.”

Some years ago, Gimli would have been all too ready to comply – liquor unleashed Legolas’ ardor like nothing else. But it had grown to feel wrong somehow, as Legolas wasn’t of clear mind. It didn’t help that he no longer remembered those drunken times.

And so Gimli simply took Legolas to their room, distracting him with banter until the elf fell into reverie.

****

“Legolas,” Gimli said the next morning in their room at the Dorwinion inn, “You are my husband, and I care for you. But I cannot take this any longer. You could down a small barrel of wine if you wanted to, you shirk your responsibilities to your realm, you cannot go without! You can’t control yourself when you drink strong wine, it’s getting worse, and it needs to stop. One day you’ll end up sharing yourself with someone who is not me, and I will _not_ accept that. You can't control yourself in that and other ways, Legolas! Wine has bested you!”

At first Legolas was completely taken aback, but then he grew furious, towering over his hervenn before leaving the room. “This coming from a dwarf who passes out whenever he has a half of a tankard of ale? Fool!”

Gimli didn’t see the elf for the remainder of that day. And he wasn’t sure he could take the thought of doing what Aragorn reluctantly suggested – leaving his soul mate, his One, if he wouldn’t stay _maimniz_ and follow the healer's recommendations for recovery, the dwarf agreeing to return only if Legolas sought assistance from the many who would help him and ceased his intake of wine. 

But Gimli was too afraid that Legolas _would_ be unfaithful then, because he wouldn’t be around to stop him.

He decided he needed to take great pains to ensure _he_ was always the one in a drunken Legolas’ path.

And wipe both of their realms free of drink.

**** 

_Eryn Lasgalen, Fourth Age 62, Mereth Nuin Giliath_

Trips to Eryn Lasgalen had become rare after the passing of Gimli’s Adad and Amad, and it had been at least two decades since Legolas had set foot in the forest he had called home for so many years.

The Elvenking had reluctantly accepted their marriage from the beginning, but his discomfort was clear, primarily for the same reasons Lord Elrond had resisted the idea of Arwen marrying Aragorn – he didn’t want to see his son’s life end due to heartsickness when the dwarf died.

But Thranduil had also grown to enjoy the dwarf’s company, having visited Aglarond several times over the years, and now they sat on the mossy carpet of a wide glade of trees, watching the revelry of the Feast of Starlight.

The fond gazes that the Prince sent Gimli’s way led Thranduil to think that perhaps it was worth it – he’d never seen him so happy. But then he witnessed his ion drink more of his strongest Dorwinion than he thought was possible, and he was less than pleased with Legolas’ increasingly amorous behavior directed towards no one in particular.

And so the conversation between Thranduil and Gimli moved from the latest gems he had uncovered in Aglarond and the gifts he was considering crafting for his beloved’s Adar. “Gimli, if I might have a word with you in private.” Thranduil didn’t wait for the dwarf to answer, simply standing and sweeping off towards his Halls.

Gimli, of course, was reluctant to leave his elf, doing so only after asking Galion to watch over him, the butler pledging that the Prince would do nothing that he would later regret.

“Master Gimli,” the Elvenking said with a great deal of anger as he paced his enormous, well-appointed study, “What have you done to my son? Is _this_ the result of those ridiculous drinking contests I have witnessed between the two of you? Dwarves apparently care nothing whatsoever about their intake of wine and ale, but if _you_ care about my ion, you’ll have him _stop_.”

Gimli, of course, was completely offended, overwhelmed, and angry – he’d been expecting a confidential conversation about enormously expensive circlets or broaches, not _this_. “I _have_ tried to get him to stop! I could spend three turns of the sun telling you all I have done, to no avail! Wood-elves, wine, what else am I to do in the face of that combination?!”

Thranduil turned to him, his long blond hair whisking around his body as he returned Gimli’s ire fourfold. But when he saw the desperation on the dwarf’s face he sighed, defeated. “I cannot see my own son come to this end. What should we do?”

Gimli had no answer.

“My Adar enjoyed wine too frequently. Legolas reminds me of him, in how freely his goblet flows.” He closed his eyes painfully. “The very worst was my Adar’s ill decision-making at the Last Alliance. Wine clouded his judgment – even when he hadn’t imbided. It was the strangest thing.” He opened his eyes again, his ever-piercing gaze meeting Gimli’s own. “You may have noticed that you have never seen Galion or I imbibe either. I haven’t done so since the escape of Gollum from our forest – it was a call to action for both Galion and myself. We must keep Legolas away from it.”

Gimli had no quarrel with his words, but he certainly had no clear idea how to reach that goal, for his words were true ones - he had consulted every healer he knew, he had tried every idea Aragorn could think of. He'd even talked to the few he could find who had stopped drinking, who'd offered to try themselves - with no effect other than the elf drinking more.

There had been two times Legolas had stopped - framed as a contest, no less - but he'd had terrifying seizures, and Gimli knew his elf could have died.

If the dwarf was honest, he was afraid to try again. And yet he also knew he had reached the end of his rope long ago.

And so he and the Elvenking talked for what seemed to be hours about options, trying to develop a plan. Thranduil even caught Gimli in an embrace when he tearfully described his desire to lay forth an ultimatum – and the fear that prevented him from doing so. 

Eventually the dwarrow grew too tired to discuss such matters any further, both of them no closer to any solution, for the dwarf had tried everything Thranduil could think of. 

Aside from taking Legolas over the Sea, which the elf flatly refused to do.

The Elvenking and the Lord of Aglarond decided to talk further in the morning, perhaps considering a way to force the elf to sail, and each drew comfort from one another in their mutual concern for the one they loved more than life. 

“I should collect him,” Gimli wearily said.

“Yes, you should.” Thranduil laid a hand on his shoulder, embracing him once more. “I am sorry for doubting you before, even if it was briefly. He is blessed to have one who cares for him as you do.”

Legolas wasn’t in the glade, nor was Galion, although the scene was just as merry as when Gimli had left. He found the butler in the kitchens, learning that he had two members of the trusted royal guard escort the Prince back to his chambers. Galion had decided Legolas was becoming too affectionate with others, threatening to embarrass the reputation of the crown with his near-sordid antics.

Gimli sighed in relief, knowing he had no need to worry about the fate of his elf, and walked the now well-known pathway within of the Elvenking Halls to their rooms. He was entirely ready to go to sleep, and he hoped Legolas felt the same.

His heart dropped to his chest when he opened the bedroom door. Legolas was asleep, sprawled on their bed – with one of the royal guard asleep beside him, an arm and a leg thrown over the Prince.

Rage flew through him like nothing he had ever felt before.

Elves _didn’t_. They didn’t cheat. It was entirely unthinkable, utterly impossible. So _how_ could this be?

Surely in _this_ place, in his father’s kingdom, of all places on Arda they could possibly be, Legolas would be taken care of? Safe? Respected? 

“Legolas!” Gimli awakened Legolas from his reverie, still unable to believe what he saw before him.

“Gimli,” Legolas said, blinking his eyes in a perplexed manner, more drunk than Gimli had ever seen him before. “What’s wrong?" Then his mood shifted suddenly, and he drawled happily, almost slurring his words, clumsily shaking the guard out of reverie. “My hervenn is here. He’s a dwarf. He’s huge.” Legolas stared at Gimli’s groin while the guard turned his head slowly turned to look at the other presence in the room, telltale fear in his eyes as he realized who he would face. He saw Gimli’s rage, much befitting any tale of a jealous dwarf, and he cowered at the edge of the bed.

Gimli closed his eyes, knowing that if he didn’t leave now he might kill both the guard and his beloved, unable to think, part of him not caring what had happened, for he could take no more - and part of him assuming the worst. “Ukrafu gantel! Nin gweriantheg!” was all he said, and Legolas’ eyes grew wide in dismay.

And so he left, Legolas unable to follow, his legs not obeying his commands to walk. In his drunken stupor he had no comprehension about why Gimli would leave or why he said what he did.

And when he woke up the next morning, his headache quickly fading due to the benefits of elven recovery, he was startled that Gimli wasn’t in bed with him – and shocked when he discovered his dwarf was no longer in the kingdom.

He was disconcerted when his Adar met with him, his gaze sterner than any he’d ever seen before.

“Should this not be the tipping point that tells you that you have a problem? Let me help you, Legolas. We can overcome this together. But you must be willing to try.” 

Was it dismay or disappointment that he saw in his Adar’s face? Or pity? Or sorrow? Or some combination of all four?

Thranduil's gaze softened as he saw Legolas' perplexed look. This was not the time for a broad conversation - it would need to wait. First things first. "It appears you may have broken your vows, Legolas." 

“What do you mean?” Legolas whispered, though he already suspected what his Adar meant. On so many occasions Gimli had told him what he was like when he lost control – yet he _knew_ it couldn't be - and in the end, his hervenn had been right.

How could he win his beloved back if he couldn’t even remember what he had - or had not - done?

And could he, Thranduil thought sadly, when he couldn't even see the myriad other ways in which drinking was ruining his life, and affecting his hervenn? Gimli had told the Elvenking how his moods were volatile, his behavior impulsive and completely unreliable...he drank, and little else.

When Legolas returned to his rooms to pack, he sent a quick prayer to Aulë to help him win Gimli’s forgivenesss. And then he drank himself into a stupor, unable to cope with the knowledge that his prayers might not be answered. If any creature could not bear inconstancy, it would be a dwarf – especially his dwarf.

He could not admit that potential inconstancy was only the tip of the iceberg, only a part of the problem, a sole tree in the forest of their lives that had been ravaged by wine.

He'd disappeared before Thranduil could collect him and force a hastily developed plan upon him, and the Elvenking and Galion could not find him. Yet he knew his ion had not come to other harm, for their shared bond had not ceased.

And part of him knew, deep down, that such a thing - stopping - could not be forced. In the end, Legolas would need to decide for himself.

Thranduil prayed to Elbereth that the decision would be a sound one - and then he spent much time contemplating what he might do to help his beloved ion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sindarin Translations_  
>  Hervenn = Husband  
> Mereth Nuin Giliath = Feast of Starlight  
> Nin gweriantheg = You betrayed me  
> ****  
>  _Khuzdul Translations (courtesy of the dwarrow scholar)_  
>  Mahaffarûn = he who continues to betray  
> Maimniz = to be kept dry, aka sober (dwarrow scholar)  
> Gantel = vow of all vows  
> ukrafu = breaker of
> 
>  _Elves & Potential Infidelity._ Strong arguments can be made that Tolkien's elves stay faithful for eternity. This story comes from a different POV, in which equally strong arguments can be made (not my own) – basically that it would be uncommon but possible within canon for an elf to be with someone other than their bonded mate in some sort of sexual manner, given the qualifiers Tolkien litters throughout his writing (e.g., seldom are tales of lust....)
> 
> Of course, note the _potential_ \- it's not clear what actually happened. Regardless, Gimli's fed up about those sorts of things - but more importantly fed up with much more than that.


	3. Chapter 3

Many days later, his courage finally found after wandering the outskirts of Erebor, Legolas arrived at the Lonely Mountain. The guards recognized him and permitted him entry to the city of stone, but instead of being led to the house he and Gimli had maintained after the passing of his Amad and Adad when they visited the mountain, he was greeted by Dwalin, the hale warrior's expression unreadable.

“Legolas. To what does Erebor owe this pleasure?”

Did Dwalin know what had happened? He hadn’t acted so distant since the end of the Ring War, when Gimli had first brought Legolas to his home.

He’d lost the contest of dwarven spirits then – and was facing the loss of his bound partner now.

“I seek Gimli,” he softly replied. “I must speak with him, it is an urgent matter.”

Dwalin frowned. “Nay, he is not here. Did you not know? He has traveled to Aglarond.”

Legolas felt a sense of desperation grow. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do – but surely he needed to follow his dwarf southward. He turned to leave, but was stopped by Dwalin’s hand.

“Legolas, it is too late in the evening to travel further. I would prefer you wait until morning. You can stay with me.”

The Prince nodded. “Thank you, but there’s no need, I shall stay in the home I share with Gimli, I can spend time tidying it and…”

Dwalin stopped his words. “I am sorry, Legolas, but I am aware of what seems to have occurred in your forest, and in light of that it would not be appropriate." 

“What do you mean?”

Dwalin wasn’t certain what to say – especially here, in the open, where others might overhear. He was the only one who knew of Legolas' potential transgression, as well as his larger problem with wine, and he would ensure it stayed that way unless Legolas himself decided otherwise. “Hmph. Legolas, suffice it to say that this is really for you and Gimli to discuss, but I know why he departed Eryn Lasgalen. You are nearly as a son to me now, just as he is, and if you need my assistance to overcome that which has caused the rift between you, I will help you. In fact, I insist.”

And so Legolas stayed Under the Mountain in an attempt at _maimniz_ , a valiant effort led by those of the Company who now cared for him as one of their own.

A week into his stay Legolas went in search of Dwalin, wanting to discuss more of Mahal's word in the context of maimniz, as they did every day. The Prince stopped short when he heard heated voices traveling through the corridor, his keen ears picking up what others would not.

“Bah! All of this effort, wasted on an elf of all things!”

“I’d not say so." Dwalin said calmly. "Beside that, we owe it him, and to Gimli.”

“Gimli’s not even here – he forsakes the elf!”

“Nay! He does no such thing, he simply needed – space. The elf has disclosed his drinking problem to all Under the Mountain, and has clearly said Gimli needed space away from it.” Dwalin sounded more forceful, nearly angry.

“By Durin’s beard, what do you allude to there, Dwalin? What did this elf do that Gimli will not stay by his side? A problem with wine – impossible for an elf! What’s the _real_ problem?”

“I will say no more – their personal matters are surely none of your concern, and the Prince has said clearly enough that Gimli needed some time away, for the Prince's struggle with wine affected our dwarf as well.”

“It _is_ my concern – every dwarf I know wonders about this elf and his trickery - we have since the days of Thorin Oakenshield. Are you blinded by him somehow? Has he bewitched you as well?!” 

“Hmph! Nothing would bewitch me, particularly not an elf! Do you think I have no sense?”

He immediately regretted his words, old prejudices automatically spoken in his anger. Yet before he could correct himself, the guard cut in.

“No more sense that Gimli, it seems. Mahal as my witness, both of you have fallen under his spell. I’ll ask once more, what is the true story here? Are you trying to recover the treasure his father recovered after the Battle of Five Armies?”

Legolas turned away then, not wanting to hear any more.

Normally such words would mean nothing to him, but not now. He missed his hervenn terribly, and guilt ate away at his core like a foul wound – and now that guilt spread to Dwalin and the others who were trying to assist him.

And so he slipped away from Erebor under the cover of night, determined he would be a burden to no one.

****

_Undertowers, Western border of the Shire on the Tower Hills, Fourth Age 67_

“Legolas? Is that you?” Elanor stood at the door to her hobbit hole, squinting in the dim light.

“Yes, it is I.” He shuffled uncomfortably, uncertain exactly what to say.

Elanor, however, was entirely full of words and warm welcomes. “It’s so nice to see you!” She pulled him down for a warm embrace and led him into her home. “Fastred is traveling right now, visiting Faramir, but he’ll be back soon. Everyone will be so excited to see you!” She looked past his shoulder, but didn’t see what she sought. “Where’s Gimli?”

Legolas’ face fell, an entirely strange expression for an elf in Elanor’s opinion. “Has something happened to Gimli?” She gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “You haven’t come here to tell me that he’s died, have you? Oh, Legolas!”

Legolas shook his head. “No, not at all. He is alive and well, so far as I know.” He sighed. “I know not where to start, or even if I should tell you. I just…”

Elanor would have nothing of it. “Legolas, you are like family to us, and no matter what has happened, you always have a home here. Come, let’s talk.”

He told her the entire story.

“Legolas,” she said, grasping his hand. “You are certainly not the first to succumb to drink, nor will you be the last. You need Gimli by your side to help you through this. Seek him. Surely he will understand that our choices are influenced by many things, and choices influenced by spirits and wine are not often wise ones. Wine has placed a spell upon you, one which must be broken. But you must commit yourself to no longer partaking of it, Legolas. For only then may Gimli be able to stand beside you, for you to lean on as the rock you need him to be when you struggle with wanting and needing.”

Legolas nodded, pretending to agree, yet _knowing_ it surely could not be so simple.

Or could it?

****

_Aglarond, Fourth Age 68_

Legolas traveled aimlessly for some months, wine in his waterskin and denial in his heart, unable to take Elanor’s advice to seek his hervenn. Most of the time, perhaps even all, he lost his brief period of awareness of his problem, unable to admit to himself that wine _had_ an unyielding influence upon him, that he _had_ fallen under the spell of wine.

But then he eventually found himself standing outside the Glittering Caves, waiting to see if Gimli would grant him audience. 

It had only been six years since he’d seen his dwarf, but it seemed like an eternal elven lifetime.

He’d almost given up hope when the Lord of Aglarond, his hervenn, appeared at the entrance, arms folded across his heart, his face like stone.

The expression told Legolas everything he needed to know. Gimli would never forgive him, let alone be the rock he could lean upon. He instantly wished he hadn’t traveled here, for staying away would have helped him keep up the pretense that they would be together eventually. But now Legolas knew there was no hope of reconciliation.

Sometimes tales were just that – spinning of words – but the stories of unyielding dwarven jealousy and stubbornness were as factual as the Valar themselves.

“I don’t understand, Gimli. If you still love me as much as ever, why can’t you be with me. Why won’t you stand by me.” Legolas whispered, feeling completely lost as his fëa drifted in winds of loneliness and despair.

If a hobbit would stand by his or her One, why couldn’t a dwarf?

Gimli sighed. His love for the elf was no less than it ever had been. Yet while his jealousy had cooled, he knew that was but a pebble compared to the boulder of the problem. He couldn’t live with the _drinking_ and all of its effects any longer. It was as Aragorn had said those years ago - he needed to craft a clear ultimatum, yet it seemed they may have lost that option. All between them seemed as decimated and destroyed as the One Ring and Sauron were now.

Legolas sighed, his eyes reflecting the heaviness of his sorrow.

The dwarf placed his hand on his beloved’s. “It was more than I had hoped for Legolas, to have had the time we had together. But I can be with you no longer. I cannot withstand it. I crumble into dust as I watch you, and I am certain that I cannot assist you. Even my past words, that a dwarf cannot be with an oath-breaker, Legolas - I realize now that is not true, not whatsoever. Should you quit, it would be different, I would welcome us trying to rebuild what we had - but you have not quit, and you must.”

Legolas felt his very being rip into shreds.

Gimli sensed it, his eyes overflowing with his pain. “You will always be my One, no matter what. But I would release you, have you seek happiness amongst your people if that is what you desire. They can manage wood-elves and their love of wine far better than I. I have passed my limit.”

Legolas gasped. “There’s no battle I cannot win, Gimli!” Legolas said despondently. “But I need you by my side.”

“Legolas,” he said softly, “I cannot abide by this any longer. You must seek someone else to assist you - perhaps a healer in your Elvenking's realm, definitely your Adar. I know he has been searching for you. Perhaps Aragorn. Aye, Aragorn would assist you. There are so many you can go to. My healers inside will help you if you wish.” Even now, he could smell the wine on Legolas’ breath. 

Then the Lord of Aglarond stood, dusting off his trousers, stealing one last glance at his elf. "You shall forever be counted - nay, known as - my dearest friend. My love for you could not be any greater than it is now." And perhaps that was why he needed them to remain apart, for if he returned to his One's side, nothing would have changed. Perhaps it would simply make it worse.

Others needed to help Legolas now, and he was not one of those who could. He had tried far too many things, and could craft a doomed-to-fail solution no longer.

Legolas, in turn, looked down at what Gimli had placed in his hand before he had stood to leave.

It was a key to a guest chamber in the Glittering Caves, one that he knew was far from their shared chambers, one that he knew was close to the healers' section of the caves.

His hand tightened around it as his heart ached, bottled-up feelings of rejection flowing through his body much like the wine was. In his despair he couldn't see anything else.

And somehow it seemed that even the Valar had deserted him – especially Aulë – for his prayers to be reunited with Gimli had gone unanswered. And perhaps they never would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sindarin Translations_  
>  Mereth Nuin Giliath = Feast of Starlight  
> Ion = son  
> ****  
>  _Khuzdul Translations_  
>  Amad = Mother  
> Adad = Father  
> Maimniz = to be kept dry, aka sober (dwarrow scholar)  
> ****  
> Faramir = Faramir Took, Pippin’s son, who married Sam’s daughter Goldilocks.


	4. Chapter 4

_Annúminas, Fourth Age 92_

Legolas reluctantly traveled from Ithilien to the seat of the High King’s rule in the northern realm of Arnor. His attendance at the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen’s firstborn had been firmly solicited, and he knew if he did not show himself that Aragorn would personally track him down, as his letters clearly indicated concern for his well-being in light of all that had passed. His reluctance was entirely borne of the painful reminders of those he did not want to see – his quest companions, especially Gimli – or, in most cases, their descendants.

It had only been a year since he had seen Gimli – from a distance at Dwalin’s funeral services, his own presence unannounced, and Legolas could recall little of it due to his Dorwinion-induced haze. Coping with heartbreak was difficult enough, but seeing the loss of the dwarrow who had grown to care for him as though he was flesh and blood was more difficult than he would have imagined. He was filled with regrets, not having seen the warrior since he snuck out of Erebor those years ago, unable to face him even after the dwarrow had sent heartfelt invitations. Legolas hoped Aulë would see to it that his remorseful prayers were directly transmitted to Dwalin’s ears, even if no other graces were to be granted to the Prince from the Valar.

He'd traveled to his Adar's kingdom first, having grown adept at hiding wine intake from him, talking of how he was successfully battling drinking by recognizing his struggle with it each day, and he carefully staged such visits to ensure Thranduil would not grow suspicious.

As the party of Ithilien elves entered the city, a growing throng of people gathered to greet them. The High King was among those present, and strode forward to embrace and welcome him. Aragorn’s smile was broad and fond, and Legolas’ heart was relieved that he wasn’t shunned as he had irrationally feared he might be. 

“It is good to see you, my friend. I have worried for you. You look well, all things considered.” Aragorn stood back from their embrace, his hands remaining on the elf’s shoulders. “In a few days, after Eldarion’s wedding celebrations and the slowing of required demands on my time, I would like to talk, heart-to-heart. I worry for your fëa in light of your separation from Gimli, yet both of you have been so private, I do not even know what occurred.” He kept it light, knowing the elf struggled with wine, planning to stage his own method of intervening when they met.

His plan required catching the elf off-guard.

Legolas said nothing, simple smiling back at his friend and feeling melancholy about the better times they had spent together. Even the time of presumed doom in which they stood at the Black Gate prior to Sauron’s fall felt more hopeful than the here and now.

That evening a feast was held to celebrate the marriage of the Crown Prince of the Reunited Kingdom. Legolas was filled with anxious trepidation as he entered the hall, entirely relieved when he saw that Gimli wasn’t there.

The feast itself was somewhat dull, with an endless stream of repetitive speeches that droned on and on. Yet interesting or not, it would not have mattered, for wine was flowing freely, and Legolas, despite his best intentions, couldn’t stop himself from trying it. His best intentions hadn’t helped him thus far, and it was no different now.

Just one drink, he told himself. 

Just one more, he would say.

Then dancing began as the evening wore on. Legolas caught a glimpse, out of the corner of his eye, of his beloved entering the feast hall. Out of habit he began to rise to greet him, and then he stopped, realizing things were no longer as they had been.

He was completely certain that he couldn’t withstand rejection from Gimli again. 

And so he sat in a darkened corner, wine a balm to his fëa as he watched his dwarf dance with a dwarrowdam with light blue beads throughout her hair and beard. When they sat down in pleased exhaustion, Gimli’s arm was around the back of the dwarrowdam’s chair, and Legolas could take it no more.

He strode over in a rage, coming to stand before his dwarrow, his body shaking in wine-enhanced outrage. “ _I_ am a oath-breaker? What of _you_ , _dwarf_? Binagnât!” He spat out the words as though they were poison.

For his part, Gimli was somewhat shocked, as he hadn’t realized Legolas was here. He certainly would not have danced with another had he known this was so, even if it was his best childhood friend, as he had no desire to further tear open old wounds.

The Prince was as devastatingly beautiful as ever. And completely drunk.

“Is this a new contest, Gimli? See how many times _you_ can break our vows with another?”

“Legolas!” Gimli grabbed his arm to lead him out of the hall. “This is not the time or the place!”

“No? Why, am I interrupting your liason?” Mournful, acidic ire dripped from his words. “Fine.” He turned and left, not realizing until he reached his room that Gimli had followed.

“Go away, Gimli.” Legolas did something he’d never done before, and shoved him against the wall opposite the door to his chambers – hard. 

But the passage of time had eased most of Gimli’s own rage. Now he simply felt sorrow as he sat on the hallway’s floor and looked at the elf, reflecting on the utterly sad state of affairs presented before him, wanting to see his elf maimniz.

“I know that you suffer, Legolas, and I assure you, I have never been with another, nor would I ever be. Surely you recall that dwarrowdam is a good friend of mine. Legolas, I’d like to offer help you yet again – you are not well,” he said softly, sincerely. Time had assisted the dwarf, and he had sent several letters to Ithilien offering what his words now conveyed, yet never received a reply. And the guards of the forest turned him away when he presented himself in person.

Legolas’ eyes narrowed. “Liar! It’s too late for that, Gimli. I don’t need your help, and I don’t need _you_!” He turned, slamming his door behind him.

Gimli stared at that closed door nearly the entire night, trying to develop some plan to help his elf, something that might actually succeed, for he knew simply returning to his side was not enough. Somehow he knew it would change nothing, perhaps even make it worse. And regardless, the Lord of Aglarond just couldn't bear the drinking any longer. But no ideas came to his mind, for over the years he had tried everything he - and others - could think of, save sending the elf to the Undying Lands, which he flatly refused.

Perhaps he should try yet again to take him there, Gimli decided.

But once he had reached that point it was too late, for now. On the other side of the door Legolas had initially drank himself unconscious. He slipped out the window soon after awakening before dawn, and was well on his way from Annúminas before Gimli realized he was gone. 

Aragorn and Gimli tried to track him, but the elf left no trail to be found beyond a league from the revived city, even for one as skilled as the former ranger. At first they worried he had met an ill fate, yet Gimli sensed no such end. So the dwarf returned southward with his retinue. The dwarf-lord was once more refused entrance to Ithilien by Legolas' border patrol, but he was grateful to know for certain that he was alive. He left a letter written at Ithilien's borders for his elf, even as he knew he would not receive a reply.

****

_Ithilien, a few months later_

_“_ Hîr vuin! Come, the feast begins!”

Legolas looked up from his paperwork, sighing at the sight of one of his advisors standing at the entrance of his talan. He was in no mood for merriment, and hadn’t been for some time.  He sipped from his goblet, one Gimli had crafted for him when they first bonded, staring at the play of light on the intricately patterned gemstones embedded in it.

A hand on his shoulder was followed by softly spoken words. “It is time you moved past the dwarf, hîr vuin. Even if what you have said is true, that he thinks you partake of too much wine – well, what of him? Is he not the one who crafted your wine goblets those years ago? Was it not he who began crafting barrels to age your own wine in when you first married? You simply enjoy our customs, and who is he to judge that? Forget him, hîr vuin." 

Legolas smiled wanly. If only it was so easy. Yet he nodded, knowing that was the easiest way to stop this conversation. “I will attend later – first I must finish my work. Go! Your favored elleth awaits you.”

The advisor nodded and made his way out of the royal talan, intending to change into something more suitable for the upcoming celebration. He found another awaiting him when he arrived at his tree, holding a letter.

“Another message from Lord Gimli?” The advisor asked with some degree of bemused distaste. “He is certainly persistent.”

The other elf nodded. “Shall I dispose of it as we have done with the others?”

The advisor nodded glumly. “It is for the best. I am certain Lord Legolas would simply do worse if he were to read whatever harsh words the dwarf has placed on that parchment. Set it on the feasting fire to burn. Reduced enmity with the dwarves does not mean we shall let this dwarf cause our Lord further pain. He is ill enough in his heart already." 

The messenger nodded once, deferentially, and set off to complete his task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sindarin Translations_  
>  Fëa = soul  
> Hîr vuin = My lord/beloved lord  
> Elleth = female elf  
> ****  
>  _Khuzdul Translations (courtesy of the dwarrow scholar)_  
>  Binagnât = vowless  
> Maimniz = to be kept dry, aka sober  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

_Ithilien, Fourth Age 120_

Thranduil had traveled to Minas Tirith to pay his respects to King Elessar, and departed as soon as he reasonably could when he realized Legolas hadn’t traveled there in turn.

The sight of his son brought untold sorrow and regret to his heart - Legolas looked like he was fading, and perhaps he was. He was breaking under the cumulative toll of his separation from Gimli and his partaking of wine in excess of what even a woodland elf would drink. While the strongest Dorwinion had kept him from dying of a broken heart, his salve seemed to have lost much of its effectiveness.

“I should have come here sooner, Legolas.” Thranduil was more apologetic than he’d ever been. How could he have been so foolish, why did he not suspect _this_? The years that had passed since he'd last seen his ion were not long for an elf – yet they were an eternity as far as heartbreak, fëa-sickness, despair - and excessive wine - were concerned. He cursed his lack of care for his own, his elvish lack of attention to the passing of the years.

The Elvenking wouldn’t allow a shroud of webs fall over his eyes and cloud his vision again. _Even if I have to lock you in my dungeons, I will help you_ , he thought to himself, but he prayed to Eru that it wouldn’t come to that.

He didn’t think the hollow shell of an elf before him would survive that.

**** 

Thranduil did what Gimli had tried decades ago in the realms he shared with Legolas – he wiped Ithilien clear of wine.

He regretted for a slight moment that there were indeed no dungeons in Legolas’ forest, for there he could surely keep him completely away from any type of wine. But it was unnecessary – Legolas was in a prison of his own, weak of spirit and body with darkness seeping throughout his mind.

The Elvenking summoned Gimli almost immediately, unable to bear watching his dear son sitting listlessly in his talan, immobilized by his demons. His face was pale, clothes hanging loosely on his body, his previously beautiful hair a mass of knots.

He and Legolas both knew that if Gimli did not respond he’d need to sail, for his broken heart would take his life as surely as wine would have. 

Yet he feared what his judgment would be in Máhanaxar – surely the Valar would not look kindly on the possible breaking of his vows, regardless of circumstance. And if they also thought, as everyone else did, that he couldn’t control his use of wine, that Dorwinion had become more than an entertaining fancy – well, he was certain they would judge him even more harshly for such flaws.

He sank into a dark depression when he grew to believe that his lack of strength and inferiority of character caused him to lose Gimli, and nothing Thranduil said could convince him otherwise. 

They sat together in his talan one evening, Legolas staring at nothing in particular, his fëa crumbling under the weight of his self-reproach. 

“We shall sail,” Thranduil told him, knowing his dear son’s time on Middle-Earth had come to a close.

Legolas looked at him with near-vacant eyes. “No, Adar. You have your rule here, you have no desire to sail. I shall go alone. If you are concerned, I think there are others in this forest who would travel with me.” He had no desire to sail, not really, for it meant he’d truly have no hope of reconciling with Gimli, never to see the dwarf again.

But, if he thought about it realistically, he’d lost any hope of that a long time ago. 

Gimli had not come – he would not come, not if he hadn’t yet, for he was a dwarf, and dwarves did not put off tasks that they wished to accomplish – and that knowledge led him to crumble even further into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Máhanaxar = The Ring of Doom in Valinor. The Valar held various councils here – and also passed judgment on various elves for their misdeeds.
> 
> Fëa = soul


	6. Chapter 6

The shores of Aman were more peaceful than Legolas would have dreamed them to be – though he didn't know it at first, as his fëa-sickness had made his hröa a hollow husk by the time he sailed from Ithilien. 

He awoke one morning in Yavanna’s golden pastures, having slept amidst a bed of woven, soft wheat stalks braided by the Lady herself.

It was his first moment of conscious awareness in Aman, and he instantly knew where he was, though he could not remember how he got there.

“Ah, you awaken! At last.” Yavanna’s smile was one of the most peaceful Legolas had ever seen, her bright eyes kind and her voice like the sound of bells. “There are many who await you, but they can be seen on your own time.” She placed a hand on his forehead, and he felt instantly calm. “I’ve not dared to use anything with you that I might typically, such as Miruvórë, as we need to keep your hröa clean of such things, yet you are doing well enough without it.”

He cast his eyes down in shame, all that was wrong in his life flooding back in an instant. 

Her hand on his chin led him to raise his eyes back up to hers. “Just as I have helped cleanse your hröa of the poison that gwîn became to you, I shall help you cleanse your fëa of your guilt. You have suffered long enough, young one. You would not carry such blame with a disease of your body – why carry it because of what you suffered with gwîn?”

The words were strangely comforting, more than they should have been somehow, and he relaxed back on his woven bed. “Aulë will be by soon. You are as much his child as any of his dwarves, and do not let any tell you otherwise. It was even strange to us at first, which is silly, is it not? Rest now, dear one, while you await your time with Aulë. He is ever-practical, dear Legolas, and will help you develop a plan to stay free of gwîn. It will be your hardest task yet, and you will never be able to relax your vigilance, but we will be by your side to assist you.”

And he drifted to sleep, finding some comfort in her words, though his sorrow remained. 

****

A booming voice woke him next, its deep tenor echoing through Yavanna’s fields and gardens. “Surely you could have summoned me sooner, my love, for he suffers much and I might assist him in ways beyond developing blueprints and plans.”

“Perhaps,” came soft words and a tinkling laugh. “Perhaps not.” 

“Hmph! I am capable of repairing more than weapons, mind you. I certainly have healed my share of hearts.”

“Within your halls! When you reunite lost loves! Speaking of that, you must ask Manwë to review the fate of the hobbit with Eru – he so keenly misses your king dwarf.”

“Hmph! King dwarf? That is more of an insult than any you have said thus far this week! What is next, calling for more mad merry elves by your side?!”

The chuckle beside him caught Legolas off guard – it had sounded like the Valar were far off; had they instantly appeared at his side?

He opened his eyes to what surely must be an illusion – his beloved ginger-haired dwarf, his hair now more grey than red, thumbing through a book. “Hmph! Worry not,” the vision said, “They argue thus all the time. It reminds me of us, in some ways, when we first met. Well, in many. Not all, though.” 

Legolas closed his eyes, willing the hallucination to go away. It seemed so real, the dwarf seated next to him close enough to touch. But when he opened his eyes again, the vision was still there. 

Was he doomed to be haunted by what he had lost, even _here_?

“After you are well enough, my elf, I shall take you to visit Sam and Frodo. They’ve built a grand hobbit hole some distance north of here, and they have cleared it of all ale, mead and wine out of respect for you. Hmph! I shall have to rebuild certain parts of it for them, however – they need more dwarves on these shores, construction is sorely wanting for a good dose of sturdiness, and Aulë entirely agrees. And then, of course, Oromë will want to hunt with you – he’s been here to care for you as well. Seems to have as much of a fondness for trees as you do – and abiding love for wood-elves.”

“Gimli?” Legolas whispered, reaching out to touch him, unsure if he was dreaming, had lost his mind, or was in a state of unbelievable reality. 

“Aye, laddie, I am here.” He reached out to grab Legolas’ hand, his larger, more calloused fingers grasping the elf’s longer, more delicate ones. “I think you knew it not, but I was the one who brought you to Valinor. I certainly couldn’t let you go alone. You were not yourself, and had not been for some time.”

“But, you didn’t come to Ithilien…”

“Nay, laddie, I did. You just knew it not.” He sighed, remorse coating his words as he moved to lay down beside Legolas, his grasp on the elf's hand never wavering. “I should have forced entrance those years ago – I should have realized you had not received my letters – ah, I shall tell you about that later, it matters not at this moment. What matters now is that you have to recover, and then we shall travel! For there is much to see and do.”

Legolas closed his eyes, wondering if his beloved dwarf was simply trying to avoid the more central questions between them. “Gimli, be honest. How can you be here now? You wanted nothing to do with me.”

The dwarrow paused for some time, unsure what to say, and Legolas grew nervous. He almost dreaded hearing what the dwarf would express, almost stopping Gimli when he began to talk once more, but decided he needed to face his words. “Legolas, it was so complicated. But it wasn’t about a desire to have nothing to do with you. You are everything to me.” The grip on his hand tightened, and Legolas breathed a sigh of relief, not even realizing he had been holding his breath. 

And then they simply lay there in silence, watching strange birds fly above them, knowing there was so much more to be said and even more that might never be resolved. But for now, they were content to just be as they were, time seeming to be at a standstill as it only could in the Undying Lands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sindarin Translations_  
>  Fëa = soul  
> Hröa = body  
> Gwîn = wine  
> ****  
> Miruvórë = nectar of the Valar, made from flowers grown by Yavanna


	7. Chapter 7

One evening many years after his arrival in Valinor, Legolas sat in a tree near his talan, watching waves crash into the beach below. He smiled serenely as he watched Gimli gathering seashells with Sam – both were aged, but neither was ready to give up their life to move on to what came next, not yet. Sam knew his time would come soon, for Frodo was almost ready to leave for Eru’s arms, and Sam would follow to where his beloved Rosie awaited him.

Gimli caught Legolas’ gaze, beckoning his beloved to make his way down – they had necklaces to craft, after all, and certainly his elf could carve some of the shells into leaves again – perhaps even craft a string of them to decorate Frodo’s Yule tree this year.

Legolas jumped down from his tree with ease, grabbing Gimli’s hand and kissing the Mahal-crafted ring that adorned his index finger, placed there when they had renewed their vows.

“Come,” Gimli said, kissing his elf’s forehead tenderly as he lovingly held Legolas' face in between his smithing-calloused hands. “Mahal is going to show us how to forge these into weapons.”

Legolas began laughing. Seashells turned into weapons? Leave it to dwarves.

Gimli laughed as well, sharing his beloved’s thoughts, a gift granted to them by Manwë himself when they had renewed their vows. 

“And don’t forget, now. A staff for Gandalf – I mean Olórin – too.” Sam said sternly. As the hobbit grew older, he rambled much like dear Pippin used to. The elf and dwarf happily prepared themselves for the onslaught that they both knew was about to begin. “With an eagle at the top. Or maybe a symbol of fire. No, never mind that, perhaps a balrog….Hmmm. Gimli, Legolas, do you think tomorrow we could try to make paper? I reckon Frodo would quite like that, and it’s been awhile since Yavanna taught us, but I think I remember. I’d like to try it with flowers this time. What do you think, Legolas? Which flowers might be best, I mean?”

And so they left the seaside for Mahal’s forge nearby, walking side by side, Gimli firmly clasping Legolas’ hand, trying to decide what simple adventure they might undertake tomorrow with their dear hobbit friend – while mutually thinking of what adventure the two of them might undertake when they were alone this evening. They would be undisturbed, a rare treat, for it was Lord Elrond’s begetting day celebration, and Yavanna’s Miruvórë would flow freely – an event they would avoid with Elrond’s blessing.

Drinking – contests or not – laid firmly in their past, and both took pains each day to ensure that it found no place in their future.


End file.
